


A Place Called Azkaban

by lembas7



Series: ECverse [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:43:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lembas7/pseuds/lembas7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a graying tower alone on the sea. Sirius Black's encounters with Azkaban.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. January 15, 1979

**Author's Note:**

> [January 1979 - July 1993.]
> 
> This is part of the ECverse, but it’s a bit of a bridge between canon and AU, so you can definitely read it without knowing the ECverse at all. Just keep in mind there are some altered canon details because of that. I made up my own Azkaban, rather than taking what was canonically there (if there actually was anything, I stopped paying attention to HP around OotP, so.) Summary paraphrased from the song “Kiss From a Rose” by Seal. Oh, and Aurors, so there’s a foul language warning. The f-bomb gets dropped at least once.

 

Sirius’ feet hit rocking, creaking wood, and he stumbled. Another wave surged, harder than the first, taking ruthless advantage of his precarious balance and slamming him to the rough planks of the raft. “Ooof!”

A loud _crack!_ exploded nearly on top of him, and he rolled out of the way almost fast enough, but not quite.

“Shit, Black!” A woman cursed, and a heavy foot stumbled on his ankle. “Ow, dammit!”

_Crack!_

Sirius’s grip on the rough edge of the raft was the only thing keeping him from spilling into the ocean. A hard nudge to his back almost tipped him in, and he pushed back – but not fast enough to avoid a heavy drenching as a high wave burst over the side of the platform. Sputtering and swearing, he shoved wet hair out of his face and twisted away from the freezing sea in time to see Dorcas appear, arms pinwheeling out for balance.

“Hey.”

Sirius blinked upwards.

Somehow Longbottom had managed to find a half-meter of the raft not taken up by three Auror trainees shoving for space around a large brass bell, and Apparate into it with nary a hair out of place. He reached a hand down and Sirius took it, staggering slightly as the surface under his feet heaved with the ocean’s movement. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Frank turned to survey the group, grinning wryly at the sight.

 _I suppose we deserve that much,_ Sirius thought with a twist of amusement. The neck of his robes was getting soaked, and turning cold and clammy in the freezing wind. Sirius shook his head briskly, Padfoot-like, throwing off the worst of the wetness. Marlene scowled at him as he splattered water everywhere; Dorcas just sighed.

“Whole and hale and mostly dry, would you look at that.” Then their leader frowned. “Where’s –”

_Crack!_

“Aieeeee-!”

_Splash!_

“Dammit, Bones,” Frank sighed as the last of the trainees surfaced a meter out into the ocean, glugging water. No one made a move for their wands, instead watching as the last of their number kicked his way towards the floating platform.

Sirius crouched carefully, bracing himself as he helped Edgar pull himself aboard. “Alright there, Bones?”

“Merlin!” the other man shifted towards the center of the tiny raft, dripping morosely and carefully avoiding the huge bell mounted there. “That’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, that is.”

Wet droplets snaking down the back of his neck, Sirius couldn’t but agree.

Marlene snorted at him, arms crossed over her chest, thoroughly unimpressed.

“Right,” Frank was biting back a smirk. “This is the edge of the prison’s anti-Apparition wards, the closest we can get to Azkaban. Next step is calling the boat.” He stepped around Edgar, pulling his wand out as he approached the bell.

“We don’t get to swim the rest of the way? What a shame,” Sirius muttered, eyeing the waves. “How far is it?”

“Three nautical miles,” Dorcas offered. “Azkaban itself is eight nautical miles out from the shore. There weren’t any concealment charms or anti-Muggle wards on the beach. The curvature of the Earth takes the island out of sight of the mainland.”

Marlene, muggle-born and not shy about it, snorted. “Until they build a lighthouse.”

Eight nautical miles of freezing water, high waves, and strong tides – not to mention the rocky shoreline sported by both the island and the mainland. _And notoriously bad weather. All the time._ Sirius eyed the deep clouds overhead, threatening rain. _I wonder if Dementors can affect weather patterns._

Frank cleared his throat loudly. “As I was saying . . .”

“There’s a boat? Thank Merlin,” Edgar muttered. He shook himself out, spraying water in all directions.

Marlene hissed and glared as cold water sprinkled the exposed skin of her face and neck. “Cut it out!”

“Why don’t you try standing here soaked to your skivvies with the wind freezing you into an icicle, eh, McKinnon?” Edgar grumped. He hunched into his drenched robes, ducking behind the bell to try to avoid the worst of the gale sweeping in off the sea.

 _Good luck with that._ But Sirius shifted to give him room anyway, and somehow ended up at the edge of the raft again. Gray eyes warily assessed the edge.

“Well, I would,” Marlene snapped, shaking long hair back from her face. “But unlike some people, I learned how to Apparate when I was seventeen.”

Sirius caught Dorcas’ amused eyes and grinned. “Ten sickles on Bones.”

“Ending up in the drink again?” The tiny witch with the wispy blond hair cocked a brow at him. “That’s where I’m putting my money.”

And from the pinched expression on Marlene’s face, and the fact that she was looming ever more threateningly over Edgar, it seemed likely. “Hell hath no fury,” Sirius muttered, under his breath.

“- idiotic lout with the personality of a freeze-dried papaya!”

Dorcas snickered.

Frank pitched his voice to be heard over the noise of the squabbling. “Once you complete your training, if you’re ever assigned to prisoner escort or release, your wand will be registered and you’ll be able to call the boat yourselves – but only for the duration of the assignment.” The tip of Frank’s wand tapped twice against the bell, and a deep gong reverberated out over the waves. The sound rang heavy in Sirius’ ears, only gradually fading into the swelling seas.

“Now what?” Dorcas piped up. Her voice was soft, almost dreamy, though her blue eyes were sharp.

Frank shot her an amused glance. “Now we wait.”

 _And see how long it takes for Edgar to get hypothermia without a change of clothes or a warming charm,_ Sirius thought. Even if he hadn’t had advance warning, he would have been hesitant to try regular spellwork so close to Azkaban. _Something feels off._

Bones was wringing out his over-robes, grumbling under his breath through chattering teeth.

“What are you thinking?” Frank was at Sirius’ elbow, using his preoccupation to shift closer than he’d anticipated.

Sirius shot a glance at the gray tower several leagues away. _By the pricking of my thumbs . . ._ “Nothing.” There was a crawling sensation, just under his skin, that was utterly unlike the chill contagion carried by Dementors.

He could feel Frank’s eyes on him, silently studying. Sirius lifted his chin and kept his eyes locked on the distant form of the Wizarding prison. From here, Azkaban looked tiny, a gray protrusion against gray waves; but the ancient fortress was anything but.

“Huh,” Edgar stuttered behind them. His teeth were starting to chatter audibly. “Would you look at that.”

Sirius turned, expecting –

Instead he found Dorcas peering beneath the bell, and Marlene crouched at her side, perpetual smirk aimed down at the planks. Sirius turned his head, and recognized the letters. He snorted.

Some astute soul with too much time on their hands had carved _Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea_ into the boards at the exact center of the raft.

“Oh, that.” Frank’s lips twisted in amusement. “Been here forever, in some form or another. It was a flag when I had my first trip out here.”

Dorcas shivered, eyeing the scratchings. “It’s creepy,” she decided.

“It fits,” Sirius agreed, gaze skipping back to the tower.

“I think -” A soft chime interrupted Marlene, and they all turned, searching for the noise. In their distraction, a boat had approached without any of them – except Frank, most likely – noticing. It was about five meters long, with a high prow and stern, and in appearance most resembled a Viking longboat.

Edgar gaped, obviously dismayed. “ _That’s_ the boat?”

 _So much for any of us getting – or staying – warm,_ Sirius winced. _‘The crossing is cold.’ Thanks for that, Prongs. Enlightening. Really._

“You’ve all got your chocolate?” Frank asked. He stepped up to the edge of the raft, bracing one hand on the longboat before leaping over the side. “Well, too late now. Let’s go.”


	2. April 7, 1980

“The tower has seven levels,” Shacklebolt rumbled from the head of the group. “Plus two sublevels, the roof, and four parapets, each with a specialized function. The two sublevels are Auror barracks and facilities, and as such, are shielded from the Dementors’ influence.”

“Wonder how they managed that,” James whispered, leaning in as they ducked through a short passageway cut into damp rock.

 _Oh, ten galleons say **they** didn’t._ But Sirius kept his mouth shut, senses tuned to the magic all around them. The passageway opened up into a small room, just about large enough to fit the half-class of Auror trainees that had made it into the latter stages of the program.

“The only point of exit or entrance to the island is on the eastern side, at the subterranean docks you entered through,” the older Auror continued. Shacklebolt halted by a closed oak door that was secured with iron bands and layers of spells, and turned to face them. “The docks are heavily guarded and enchanted. Anti-apparition wards extend in a sphere with a radius of three nautical miles around the island in all directions, including underwater. Scaling the cliffs up from the ocean to reach the ground level of the tower is impossible.”

 _Really? Why?_ It was over thirty feet of sheer, slippery rock, but _impossible_ implied something other than sheer difficulty would prevent an attack from the sea. But Shacklebolt didn’t seem inclined to comment further. _We could break in,_ Sirius thought, a shared glance with Prongs telling him James was thinking the same thing. _It might not be easy or quick, but we could._

Unless you were the new Dark Lord, however, breaking _in_ to Azkaban wasn’t the issue.

“What about boats?” someone in the front of the group asked. It sounded like Dawlish. “What would keep someone from just rowing a boat up to the docks?”

“The Island is well out of the way of the Muggle shipping routes, and is heavily layered with Muggle-Repelling wards. There are alarms and monitoring systems which track boats not registered with Azkaban’s wards. You’ll see the set-up on sublevel two.” Shacklebolt eyed them. “Any questions?”

“How many Dementors on Azkaban?” James called out.

“What the hells d’you want to know that for?” Sirius muttered under his breath.

“I’m curious. Shut up,” Prongs hissed back.

“ _You_ shut up,” Sirius couldn’t stop himself from grumbling.

Prongs snickered.

“There’s not an exact count, but best estimates put the number between two seventy-five and three-fifty.” Shacklebolt’s voice was gruff. One hand went to the heavy bar stretched across the door. “Brace yourselves.”

The door swung silently open on heavy hinges, and Shacklebolt ducked through. Sirius watched, gray eyes narrowed, as the trainees at the head of the line passed into the prison entryway. A few stumbled; most shivered. He managed to slip ahead of James, pressing his friend momentarily back with one hand.

It was like jumping, naked and wet, into a freezing wind; and far worse than the first excursion to the Island, where they had travelled in the boat around the edges of the Dementors’ influence, never closer, before heading back. Sirius’ breath left him in a startled _whoosh_ , clouding the air in front of his face.

A body crowded into the hallway behind him, and James swore quietly.

Azkaban was a stone tower, cold and draughty – but it was the Dementors’ presence that turned the chill into a living thing, raking icy fingers across the soul.

A surprised murmur came to life up ahead, Shacklebolt’s deep voice prominent; someone had fainted.

Sirius pressed against the wall as Keir and Pritchard pushed by, hoisting Layton between them. His face was pasty-pale, and there were sickly bruises under his closed eyes that hadn’t been there ten minutes ago.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sirius caught James’ wince.

He could feel the memories pushing at his mind, pressing hard against every other thought, as they had during the first trip to the island. He kept the wall up, not wanting to revisit the night his parents had disowned him, or the moment six months ago that he’d found out his little brother was dead. Layton’s mother, he remembered with sudden horrible clarity, had been burned alive by a miscast spell when Layton was seven.

“Anyone else who feels ill needs to stay behind,” Shacklebolt’s voice rang clear in the silence. “That’s why we’re here – to determine if anyone is medically unfit for prisoner detail.” Among other things.

And it was tempting, but – no. Sirius slanted a glance at James, and found him white-faced but composed.

Only two others slid back through the door, pale and shaky and gasping for breath.

Shacklebolt paused for a moment before continuing. “It gets worse,” he said bluntly. “Ground level of the island has the highest concentration of Dementors, and the next two levels of the tower are saturated. We’re below that right now.”

No one else moved.

An appraising eye was cast over them before the Auror turned, leading them up the inclined hallway into the prison proper. The cold bit cruelly at his skin with each step, and it wasn’t long before Sirius could hear sounds filtering down from ahead.

Shacklebolt cleared his throat. “The solitary confinement cells are first.”

The hallway widened, floor flattening, and Sirius heard James suck in a breath.

“Prongs?” he whispered.

“They’re _walled in_ ,” the other Marauder hissed back, hazel eyes a little wild.

A wicked laugh hit his ears and Sirius jumped, hunting for the source. The sound pitched upward horribly, and trailed off into a wail.

There was a tiny grate in the wall.

Movement flashed behind tightly interwoven iron bars at shoulder-height, and Sirius wished he hadn’t understood. Now, he could hear the clanking of chains sifting out into the hall from the cells.

“Only the Guard-Captain has the authority to transfer prisoners between cells,” Shacklebolt was saying. “We try to reserve at least one solitary cell for prisoners who act up, but crowding’s beginning to be a problem. We’ve had to move several long-term maximum security prisoners to solitary permanently, to free up cells on the second and third levels.”

Sirius could feel James, pressed against his side. They had unconsciously clumped together in groups – for warmth or security, anything that would stave off the misery of the prison.

It wasn’t helping.

The hallway ended at a T-junction, with dim corridors stretching to the left and right and an honest-to-Merlin portcullis dead ahead. Sconces illuminated dank stone with an eerie glow that was too steady for natural flame. Heavy oak doors, visible beyond the gaps in the portcullis, shuddered on their hinges from the power of the wind blowing in over the sea. They were tightly latched.

“How do the Dementors get in and out?” Sirius wondered.

James’ voice was tight. “I really don’t think that’s a problem.”

Surprised by the strain, Sirius slanted a glance at his friend as they followed the group to the left. Alarm shot through him, sending his heart thumping. “Prongs, you look like hell.” James was sheet-white under messy black bangs, sweating and shivering, a muscle in his jaw flexing as he clenched his teeth.

“Hate to break it to you, Padfoot, but you’re not going to be winning any beauty prizes yourself.”

Sirius’ throat clicked on a dry swallow. “Still beat you.”

“Don’t bet on it,” James’ voice was a thin rasp. It hit the walls and dissipated, too faint to even form an echo.

The fully walled-in solitary cells gave way to maximum security after another sharp left turn; here the stone barrier only reached waist height before metal bars took over. The gratings’ weave had expanded only enough that the prisoners in each cell were visible, dark forms swathed in chains. Every single cell had a body, but the hall was cadaverously silent.

_And this is what it’s like when the Dementors have been ordered to stay away._

Kingsley Shacklebolt, at the front of the hall, seemed entirely unaffected; Sirius’ respect for the man shot higher. “Maximum prison capacity is six hundred-fifty,” his voice started up again, easily carrying to the back of the group. “We have twenty solitary cells and thirty maximum security on ground level. Levels two through six are regular, and Level seven is minimum security. We can double up on prisoners in cells on all other levels but ground level.”

 _And we’re going to have to, if Voldemort continues to gather support at his current rate,_ Sirius thought grimly.

The group came to a halt as Shacklebolt paused beneath a wide archway. “These stairs lead up to the next six levels. They’re wide enough for prisoner transport, four men abreast. Levels two through seven are identical in layout, so we’ll be heading to the top to give you a walkthrough. Then to the roof, and the Infirmary.”

Sirius couldn’t feel his fingers. He stuffed his hands in his armpits, and noted absently that a few people ahead had already stopped shivering. _Hypothermia. This just keeps getting better and better._

“Why’s the Infirmary on the roof?” James muttered. “That seems really inconvenient, especially if the most dangerous prisoners are on ground level.”

“What I want to know is why we’ve got to climb more than six flights of stairs,” Savage grunted up ahead, loud enough to be heard even with most of the group between them. “An escalation enchantment would be really handy right about now.”

“Lazy sod,” James snorted, very quietly.

Sirius hummed his agreement. _With all the magic imbued in the stones and mortar – unbreakable charms, strengthening spells, confinement hexes, and even more I’ll bet – Azkaban’s probably at saturation point. Any more magic and the stones themselves would crumble. Or come to life._

The stairs were flat and wide, and very well lit. Nor did they spiral upwards as Sirius expected, instead spanning one entire side of the square tower to let them out, one floor higher and on the opposite side than they had entered by. There was an arrow-slit window on the third flight, and Sirius chanced a glance.

Brown dirt over black rock, almost indistinguishable beneath a swirling mass of rotten gray cloaks. Open, and barren, and flooded with Dementors. _Merlin save us._

James nudged him. “Does it seem warmer up here to you?”

Sirius pulled away from the window, hurrying to close the gap between him and Dawlish’s back. “Yeah.” _Huh._

And the sensation continued as they ascended, until it was almost as if the tight bands compressing his chest had broken; as if the heavy despair coating his heart had chipped to pieces and fallen away. Sirius would have welcomed the relief if not for the knowledge that they had to go back down through the misery and suffering to get out of the prison. _It’s enough to drive anyone mad._ Small wonder it was said that no one ever truly left Azkaban – even those who were let go.

They wound briefly through the seventh floor of the tower, the halls running a squared-off figure eight lined with narrow cells that were mostly empty. Misdemeanors and small-time crooks, who had tread on the Wizengamot’s patience one time too many, but no one on the uppermost level had a sentence exceeding eighteen months.

Sirius caught James rubbing briefly at his arms as they pushed up the last flight of stairs. “Did you see how they were staring at us?” Prongs asked quietly.

“No,” he admitted. The mystery of the bizarre warmth had been occupying the corner of his brain not applied to scrutinizing the build of the tower, defensive enchantments, and the layout of cells – even as he listened with half an ear to Shacklebolt’s voice, quoting numbers and statistics.

James ruffled at his hair, a nervous habit that had always succeeded in further tangling the mess. “It was – weird. Like they were trying to see straight inside me. Daft, I know. But creepy.”

Sirius repressed a shudder.

The stairs narrowed, no wider than two men across, and disgorged them from the southeast parapet. Salt-sea air pushed past them in a constant wind off the waves. It was colder on the roof, but a different sort of cold that did not strike to the soul. _It’s almost identical to the wind on the boats, coming here,_ Sirius mused.

He headed to the edge, leaning against thick stone and setting his eyes on the darkening horizon. If he didn’t look straight down, it was almost easy to forget entirely he was on Azkaban. _They’re looking up at you, hungry, right now,_ whispered a voice of caution in the back of his mind.

“We’ve climbed up and out of their influence.” James settled next to him, also looking pointedly out to sea and not down the wall to the prison grounds. “Guess that’s why Infirmary’s all the way up here, then. Strange to think there might be some sort of peace anywhere on this island.”

“Hmm.” Sirius nodded.

James shifted at his side, pushing away from the ledge at the sound of Shacklebolt’s voice, raising behind them. “C’mon, mate, we’re not done.”

“Yeah,” Sirius followed slowly, casting one last glance out at the ocean, hand lingering on smooth stone. “Strange.”


	3. July 28, 1981

_"Reducto!"_

_"Expelliarmus!"_

_"Sectumsempra!"_

_"Incarcerus!"_

_"CRUCIO!"_

Sirius hurled himself into the waves just ahead of a bloodcurdling scream, slinging a hex haphazardly as he fell. _"Stupefy!"_

The scream cut off into a choked groan just as a body hit the planks of the raft.

He clung to the side of the boat, feet treading water, soaked and gasping. _I'm going to kill Kloet . . . if Trixie hasn't done it for me._ Sirius pushed off the boat's starboard side, stroking to the raft and carefully avoiding the Auror groaning against rough planks as he hauled himself aboard.

_Thank Merlin it's July._

Which didn't mean it wasn't still cold, especially with the wind whipping down from the north, clouds black and threatening on the horizon. But at least it wasn't _freezing_.

And Kloet had actually called for the boats while Sirius forced Trixie into side-along Apparition. It looked like she'd taken a few sizeable chunks out of one of the vessels, though, and had ploughed a furrow of splintered wood down the center of the raft as well. More subtle magic was at work, however – for all the raft looked as if it was one heavy wave from splitting in two, it felt solid to his feet and senses.

Sirius raised his wand, shooting gold sparks high.

An alarm had gone off, beachside, as soon as Trixie had touched Kloet's wand – procedure was for the rest of the team to assess the situation and hold-off on Apparating out to the raft, given that close quarters were such a bitch for infighting. The whole process – Apparate from the Ministry to the beach, then the beach to the raft, and finally take boats to the Island – was necessary to maintain the secrecy and security of the Prison; but the raft was the point where everything had the highest chance of getting bollixed up.

" _Incarcerus-ankh,_ " Sirius muttered, ropes shooting from his wand to bind his cousin tightly. He bent to pick up Kloet's wand just as the _pop!_ of someone Apparating behind him sounded.

Sirius shook his head, soaked and irritated, and offered a hand to help Kloet pull himself to a sit.

"What the Hades happened?" came a rough growl. From peg-leg to roving magical eye, Mad-Eye Moody was Not Impressed.

Kloet gasped like a landed fish, still shaking a little.

Sirius's grip tightened on his wand. _Tact. Try tact._ If anyone had been killed, he wouldn't bother, but it looked like the other Auror would be fine; the Cruciatus had only been on him for a few seconds. "Kloet verbally engaged the prisoner." Sirius raised a brow, and couldn't help glancing at his unconscious cousin. "Trixie's always had a short fuse."

Sirius had only half-caught the comment – something typical about inbreeding and insanity in the old families – before Bellatrix had spat in Sirius' face, called him a blood-traitor, and burst free of the _incarcerus_ charm to punch Kloet across the chin before snatching the wand from his hand.

 _Speaking of family . . ._ "Rudolphus is going to be furious if he sees her like this," Sirius muttered, mostly to himself. "Best to knock him out now, and avoid him throwing a fit." And a few _Avada Kedavra_ s.

"Is that your official recommendation?" Moody rumbled.

Sirius scowled, temper flaring high. "My _official_ _recommendation_ was to aim to kill when bringing them in. Right this moment, my _official_ _recommendation_ is to drop the both of them into the Northern Sea and let them sink," he said bluntly. "They're murderers, and they _enjoy it._ Azkaban will only make it worse, and they'll be dangerous until they die." He bit back furious words, teeth grinding. _Buggering hell._

The last person who had spouted off at Mad-Eye Moody was still processing the man's backlog of paperwork.

But Merlin take it, he _liked_ the Longbottoms.

And in three days Sirius was going to celebrate his godson's first birthday, knowing that Frank and Alice would never see their own little boy's birthday, or first word, or anything other than St. Mungo's long-term care ward, ever again. _Bastards._

So he took a deep breath through his nose, trying to ignore the water soaking his clothes and skin. _Chin up, eyes forward, shoulders straight._ "Yes," Sirius snapped. "That's my recommendation. _Sir._ "

Moody's gaze fixed unerringly on him, unnerving after the time it took to get used to the fact that no matter what, the magical glass eye never stopped moving. "Huh," was all he grunted.

The wind whipped higher, its voice a mocking howl across the sea.

Moody tapped the discreet patch on his robes, words lost to the sound of growing waves. Underfoot the raft was slowly repairing itself, splinters dredging up from the deep to slide back into place, reforming weathered planks even as Sirius watched.

It was the work of a moment to sling Trixie into one of the boats, though it took more prodding to force Kloet in after her. The other Auror sat in the far end of the boat, wand at the ready, never taking his eyes off her.

Sirius snorted. _Bit late for that._ And the only way she was getting out of those ropes now was if she killed him; which would take some doing, with her magic bound along with her body.

_Pop-pop!_

Two people snapped into existence at the same time, one of them oddly limp.

Sirius didn't quite relax at the sight of his senseless cousin-in-law, but his next breath came easier. "Thanks."

Anne Lin grunted, spell-slinging Lestrange into the boat as it merrily mended itself. "Welcome." Her grin was pure malicious delight; Rodolphus' head knocked against one of the wooden slats that functioned as seats, body twisted uncomfortably on the bottom of the boat. Neither of them moved to shift him. "Wind's kicking up," she muttered, dark eyes scanning the clouds. "And the worst of it's still to come."

Sirius shivered as a gust caught him in his soaked clothes.

"In," Moody rumbled, clumping to the boat holding Sirius' cousin and getting in with a strange grace. His wand was out and fixed, rock-steady, on Bellatrix. "Vigilance."

 _She's not going anywhere._ More concerned with avoiding another dip in the ocean than Bellatrix, Sirius gripped the side of Rodolphus' boat tightly and almost threw himself in. _Merlin curse it, but it's cold!_ But the Aurors' subterranean barracks had towels. Lots of towels. "Let's get this over with."

Anne hummed in agreement, and settled sideways in the bow – unwilling to turn her back on Rodolphus for a moment, even unconscious. Moody's boat, with Bellatrix, automatically took the lead.

 _Once we call the boats, we have so little control over where they go and how fast they get there._ It was worked into the Island's magics, which were old and understood by very few.

Sirius tried not to think about it too hard.

As they arrowed towards Azkaban, the choppy waves blowing spray over the sides grew into heavier swells. The wind switched direction, blowing a steady chill out of the north. Wand on Rodolphus, Sirius kept some attention turned inward, on the place where the spell locked around Bellatrix fed gently on his life-force.

"Son of a bitch!" Anne's voice was low with shock.

A gray mass rose into view above the cliffs of Azkaban, swirling around the stone tower of the prison in a tight spiral. _What the –_

"Dementors." The word fell from Sirius' lips like a weight, and he felt his mouth press tight, holding back his horror. _There must be hundreds of them._ The tower was almost obscured by the rushing cyclone of rotting gray cloaks, floating high above the turrets on the rooftop.

Anne sucked in a shaky breath, and a second later Sirius felt the cold chill of despair wash over him, clinging to every inch of exposed skin. It wasn't strong enough to pull up memories, not at this distance, but it grew more powerful as they sped towards the jagged cliffs.

Not for the first time, Sirius thought, _This place is hell._

The crossing was an eternity of turbulent seas and rising misery, interrupted only by Rudolphus blinking back to awareness as the shadow of the Island fell over them, choking and inexorable.

He had one last glimpse at the sky, darkly ominous, before the boat slid into the quiet swells of Azkaban's subterranean harbor. _A storm is coming._

Ahead of them, Moody's boat came to a smooth stop at the dock. Kloet jumped out first, tripping on Bellatrix's limp form. Rudolphus managed a single snarl before Anne stunned him again. She shrugged when Sirius lifted a brow her way.

Savage was waiting for them, lantern in one hand and a pile of chains at his side.

Moody hefted Bellatrix onto the cold stone of the pier, snorting as Kloet kept a good meter and another person between himself and the Death Eater; Sirius dragged Rudolphus from the boat and dropped him at her side. Savage bent, unlocking and manually clamping the chains around Rudolphus.

 _"Finite,"_ Sirius muttered, flicking his wand at Bellatrix. The ropes vanished, and were immediately replaced by cold iron. _As if the Dementors weren't enough._ Though he could feel the creatures' icy oppression weighing down from above, the caverns beneath the tower proper were shielded. _And they won't lose their magic until they've been continuously exposed for at least a month._ More, if they didn't actually regret what they'd done. _No bet like a sure thing._

As a result, Azkaban was wrought with both cold iron and despair.

"We've emptied out two solitaries," Savage cleared his throat, spitting heavily into the harbor. "But the wind's kicking up, so we'd better hurry. They're in separate halls."

Moody's head of wild brown hair bobbed. "Let's get them settled."

Kloet was forced to half-carry Trixie, which was only funny until Sirius found himself saddled with her husband. A grunt escaped. _Bastard's heavy._

Not that that was surprising. Sirius had seen him eat.

He kept close behind Moody on the inclined path, Savage just preceding the other Auror and Kloet skittering far ahead up the stone-lined corridor. Anne's presence beat steady and reliable at his back. Rudolphus weighed heavily across his shoulders, the cold iron a muted but undeniable presence on the Death Eater's wrists, but it wasn't him Sirius was concerned about. _Pureblooded enough for Trixie to marry, crazy enough to love her, but nowhere near powerful enough to be a true threat._

If his cousin got free, she would do her damndest to tear Azkaban down around them. The worst Rudolphus might accomplish would be their deaths; but Trixie was _creative_.

_Frank and Alice are proof of that._

Shacklebolt was waiting on them as they came to the top of the incline, Kloet twitching warily at his side.

Clammy in his soaked robes, Sirius blinked. _Now what?_ Trixie hadn't ever obliged anyone but Voldemort in her life – the chances of her staying helpfully unconscious long enough to be chained up in solitary were slim to none as it was.

Some wordless communication seemed to pass between the two senior Aurors, and ended with Shacklebolt ordering, "Two by two. Kloet and Lin, hold the line at the door. Alastor, you and Savage have the mister. Black and I will take the bitch."

There was a pause; Sirius caught the glances that were aimed his way, and dropped Rudolphus to cold stone without hesitation. _Another test._

The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black was notorious for a lot of reasons, and this was the first time in publicly-remembered history that one of them had locked another away.

_Good thing I'm a blood-traitor, then._

Better that no one but the inner family knew as much as they thought they did about his House; but not for him, and not now.

Even with Sirius casting the spell that brought Bellatrix LeStrange down, his fellow Aurors didn't trust him. Not fully. He stepped over Rudolphus to pick up Bellatrix, silently pushing unconsciousness on her as his hand brushed the skin of her arm.

"Let's go," Moody growled.

It was all swift, silent movement from there on, broken only by the clanking of cold iron chains as they ascended the stairs through the two underground levels to reach the door to the prison proper.

Sirius had a moment of déjà vu as Shacklebolt stood at the solid oak door, looking back at them with grim lines etched into his face. "Get ready."

The door cracked open, and a hundred screaming voices forced their way through.

It was like nothing he'd ever felt before in his _life_.

Yanking hard at the protected inner core of his magic, Sirius tried to build up barriers against the onslaught and struggled for breath as they fell.

_Weeping anguish, ripping at his lungs and clenching against his body; for you cannot escape and THIS IS DEATH of everything you love reviles you and crushes your bleeding heart in one fist as tears squeeze from your ruined soul and WE ARE DESPAIR –_

Bellatrix thrashed weakly in his grip, a moan clawing free from her throat.

Sirius snapped back to himself, gasping to find that his body had continued to move without him; hauling his unconscious cousin down the hallway behind Shacklebolt. Horrendous sounds pressed in on all sides, of men broken down to animals in vicious pain.

Three more steps brought him to the cell that Shacklebolt had opened, stones clinking and sliding out of the way to form a narrow door. Cold iron chains were bolted to the walls and floor, spelled to stretch and retract so that the prisoner had some limited movement within the stone box but was constantly contained.

Sirius spilled Trixie to the dank, filthy floor, shuddering with the onslaught of misery as the Dementors roused. Shacklebolt was moving quickly, re-chaining his cousin to the cell before removing the transport irons.

She stirred even as they exited the cell, and Sirius saw her eyes lock on them as he backed away, wand at the ready. She took a breath, and Shacklebolt called up the wall as her scream ripped past them, banshee-shrill. Shifting stone muffled the sound long before she ran out of breath.

 _Merlin_ but he wanted out of here; almost enough to run down the hallway, even with Shacklebolt watching. Sirius managed a glance out and up through one of the arrow-slits the Tower called windows, and immediately wished he hadn't.

The Dementors were _dancing_ through the air.

"Move it, Black!" Shacklebolt barked.

Barely holding on against the rush of Darkness, they retreated.

Ensconced in the caverns beneath the Tower, Sirius rubbed a towel briskly through overlong black hair to hide the shiver in his limbs. Kloet clutched a cup of tea in shaking hands as Anne hovered near the cauldron's warmth. Even Savage was pale and trembling.

And the rising storm meant no one was going anywhere until morning.

"Rufus sends his regards," Moody had his arms crossed over his chest where he sat at the rough kitchen's oak table, supremely unconcerned.

Seated opposite, Shacklebolt was equally as unruffled. "I was surprised when he didn't show up to lock their cell doors personally."

Mad-Eye didn't shift. "The damn press."

 _Not so damned as all that._ It might not be an election year, but Scrimgeour was far too canny to pass up an opportunity to further his reputation. Huddled in borrowed robes that were far too wide and still two inches short in the wrists, Sirius slumped down at the last empty seat. _If I can't be warm, at least I'm dry again._

"Tell you one thing, I'm damn sick of reading how You-Know-Who's blasted through wards and staged attacks and killed people and the Aurors are doing _nothing_ ," Savage growled, braced against a stone basin that doubled as a sink. "Even this last – we caught the LeStranges, but not a word about the people we lost doing it. It's all about the _story_ , delving into their _pasts_ , and gawking over what happened to Frank and Alice. Bloody chizpurfles."

Anne left the small fire, and the water bubbling over it, to open one of the oaken chests alongside the wall. The sounds of rifling hit Sirius' ears. "Sad to say, but it's better than all the rest of the news lately. Load of tripe, the lot of it. Ah! Digestive?" she offered the packet round. No one moved. "They're chocolate-covered."

A minute later everyone had one, and Anne had brought the roll of biscuits back to the table.

"And it's not every day that Death Eaters get taken out by their own family." Kloet, finally getting up the nerve to do more than cower, his voice thin and reedy. And then lower, but loud enough that everyone heard, "Everyone knows the old families are full of Death Eater scum, anyway."

Sirius resisted the urge to snarl. Barely. _Mostly because it's . . . almost true._ If someone could get it right while missing the point entirely.

"That's a headliner for sure," Savage chomped through his digestive, spraying crumbs everywhere. "Oi, Black. What's it like to know you have the same blood as pure evil?"

 _And here it is again._ A better man would probably have ignored him. "I'm not related to your mother, Savage, so I really couldn't say."

"You son of a bitch!" Savage shoved away from the basin, but wasn't dumb enough to go for his wand while under Moody's critical – roving – eye.

"True," Sirius snickered.

Savage was blowing and puffing like a Chinese Fireball. "Next dueling session, Black. You're _mine_."

"Please," Sirius scoffed, pulling another biscuit from the packet. "I grew up with Bellatrix Lestrange and a whole family of _Death Eater scum_." Kloet paled at the glare Sirius shot him. "Do you really think _you_ scare me?"

And Moody's tolerance abruptly ran out. "The only one anyone here should be wasting time fearing is _me._ You'll both cool down, _now_ , or I'll have you patrolling the halls all night. Let the Dementors cool you down."

 _To the seven hells with that_. Sirius clamped his mouth shut, and chewed his chocolate biscuit.

Savage apparently came to the same conclusion.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of stilted conversation and broken sleep; dawn brought with it a calm that settled the sea and pushed the Dementors back to the ground. But for all the protections on the subterranean barracks, they were on the raft again before Sirius could take a breath that wasn't weighted down with sorrow. His salt-encrusted robes itched.

"A job well-done," Moody grunted, stretching in the early morning light.

Anne sighed, disheveled from a night of sleeping on cold stone. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"I second that." Kloet vanished without another word; followed by Moody and then Anne in a series of _pops!_ that sounded incongruously like a handful of corn kernels tossed in a hot pan.

Standing on weathered planks, watching dawn break innocuously over the Island, Sirius shuddered. _I don't ever want to see the place a Dementor is born_. But he had the feeling he already had.

Magic had repaired the raft from Trixie's near-escape, the boards just as weathered and beaten and eternal as ever. _Something's missing._

Realization struck. Sirius paused a moment, staring at the quiet tower as he rested a hand against the brass bell. A twist of will and magic, and warmth flared beneath his palm. He Apparated away.

The only sign he had ever been there was a fresh engraving on sea-weathered brass. _Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea._


	4. November 2, 1981

_Merlin, it hurts . . ._

He must have muttered it, because the thick hand around his bicep tightened cruelly. "I damn well hope it does," came the voice. Deep and angry – but Sirius had long since lost track of the man behind the words, in the haze of veritaserum and brutal blows.

"Prongs?" he wondered.

_No, Prongs wouldn't say that. Prongs wouldn't –_

"Wot the 'ell is 'ee on about now?" came a second voice, yanking him along on the other side.

"Who cares," the first voice grunted. "In here."

Metal clanged, even as the Aurors paused in dragging him. A moment later, though, there was nothing to hold him up and Sirius dropped full-length against freezing stone. _Should hurt_ , he thought fuzzily. They'd thrown him in here, and he'd had no chance to brace against the fall. _Why doesn't it hurt?_

Everything else did.

His mind was swallowed by the myriad ailments assaulting him; Sirius shivered through the pain, able to think no further than his next breath.

_"Lily?"_

_No sound, not even a baby crying, at being woken so loudly in the night._

_"James? Dammit, Prongs, answer me!"_

_And then he stumbled, over something lying in his path. "Lumos."_

Sirius gasped, horror and heartache overflowing from his eyes, strangling sound in his throat. It was too new, too fresh, and he hadn't – he couldn't –

_It hurts . . ._

The only heat he could feel was spilling down his cheeks, and a far corner of his brain knew what this was. _Dementors._ But his wand had been taken from him and snapped, Pete had betrayed them, Prongs and Lily were dead – _Harry, Merlin, what's happened to Harry – Remus, does he know?_

A chill breeze hit his skin, freezing over the blood smeared there. Sirius curled in, a little, feeling the dark shadow of a Dementor's presence pressing against his soul from where it was lingering, just beyond the bars. There was likely no point in trying to get away; more would come, merciless in their ravenous hunger for emotions, able to suck him under no matter where he went. The cells in Azkaban were small.

He was in Azkaban.

_But I didn't do it!_

Hot anger spurted through him, giving Sirius the energy to pull himself into a far corner. Cold stone lay against his back, and he slumped against the floor. Clarity returned slowly, first with the smell of brine in his nose, second with a blast of pain from abused ribs. He focused slowly, eyes gradually adjusting to the dimness of his cell.

There was a Dementor pressed against the bars.

Sirius pushed back against the wall, pain vanishing in a wash of adrenaline.

_Something flew in his face, and Sirius leant back in the chair before he could stop himself. The ropes kept him from going anywhere; but this time, it wasn't a spell that was headed his way._

_Travers sneered at him. "Look."_

_It was a newspaper._

_The front page was entirely taken up by a photograph – figures poked through a decimated house with the Dark Mark hovering above. Sirius recognized the front walk, but it was the ruins that shocked him._

_"Godric's Hollow?" he breathed. The bruising around his left eye protested as his eyes widened._

_"Don't act so surprised," the Auror in front of him snapped. "You may have fooled us for years, but your cover's in pieces now, Black."_

_Sirius glared at him. "Blow me."_

_Shacklebolt snorted, but Sirius didn't look at him until the other Auror pushed off from the wall and advanced. "Administer the Veritaserum and be done with it," he advised._

_Sirius blinked. Veritaserum? But that was only for –_

_The fist came out of nowhere, slamming into his stomach and stealing his breath, leaving him sagging against the ropes stretched across his chest. Sirius panted for breath, and in that moment someone shoved a wooden bit between his teeth, wedging his jaw open, and yanked his head back, hard._

_Sirius coughed, struggling to breathe. His neck was stretched back beyond endurance, his body arching against the ropes from shoulders to ankles and unable to compensate. Liquid hit the back of his throat, and Sirius choked. The wooden rod pressed his tongue down, and he convulsed once against the ropes, trying to somehow cough and breathe._

_He couldn't help but swallow._

He remembered watching, as if from a great distance, as Travers and Shacklebolt asked their questions. Over and over – where was Voldemort? What happened at Godric's Hollow? What did the Dark Lord know about their capabilities? Did You-Know-Who have access to the Auror codes and procedures? Who in the Department was under the Imperious?

And their frustration had only grown as the only words that passed his lips were _I don't know._

He'd been coming out of it, slowly, when Scrimgeour had entered the room.

_"Bagnold has approved Crouch's order. We'll transfer him to Azkaban immediately." The older man's eyes were flat and cold, but Sirius was awake enough to protest._

_"Wh -" he licked his lips and tried again._

_Scrimgeour moved to stand before him, yellowish eyes flicking over him as if he'd only now noticed Sirius, tied as he was to a chair in the very center of an otherwise empty room. Every step rang clearly against the floor. His face was full of disgust, twisting his mouth out of shape and pulling his bushy brows down ominously._

_"Azkaban?" the word passed his lips whole, and Sirius could feel the drug fading with each passing second. Dread was taking its place._

_"Of course," Scrimgeour sneered. "That's where murderers go, Black."_

_"I didn't -"_

_"Oh yes you did! You killed them!" The Head of the Aurors' voice rose in a shout. "They called you their best friend and you gave them up to Voldemort! He ripped them to shreds! You murdered Peter Pettigrew, and twelve people who were just standing there! Who else!" Scrimgeour bellowed. "Who else have you killed?"_

_"Rights," Sirius managed. "Trial."_

_Scrimgeour leant down, close enough to drop the words into Sirius' ear. "Consider yourself tried in absentia."_

_It took a mere moment for the implications to sink in. And Sirius went wild._

It hadn't done him any good; there'd been three of them, with wands, and one of him, tied. All he'd had was his magic, and that just barely, with the last of the Veritaserum dulling his senses and slowing his reaction time. The Cruciatus had hit him, and Sirius had been lost.

_And now I'm here._

The Dementor at the bars reached a rotted hand into the cell at his surge of despair.

 _I didn't do it!_ He thought fiercely, teeth bared at the horrible creature edging as close as it could get. _I didn't!_

The cold intensified, bringing with it a tinge of freezing desolation that even November in the far north couldn't accomplish. Another gray cloak swirled into view, and another, and another. Hoarfrost spiraled up the iron bars, clean and brilliantly white against the misery of prison, and raced towards him along the cracks in the stone. Cold suffocated him.

_"We can't spare the strength, if we want it to come loose cleanly with enough power to bind again." Father was using the same voice he had when he had first taught Sirius how to levitate._

_Sirius felt his mother nod, even though he couldn't see it. "Now?"_

_"Now!"_

_Pain snarled through him, stealing the breath he might have used to scream. There was a moment of stillness that seemed to stretch for an eternity . . ._

Sirius gasped, shoving the memory away. He had the time to suck in a breath before the press of cold stole over him once again, and he was dropped into the devastation of Godric's Hollow.

_"Dammit, Prongs, answer me!"_

_God, no! No, no, no! NO!_

"Nooooooooooo!"


	5. May, 1982

The air had a hint of warmth to it.

Sirius pulled in a breath, huddled in a corner against the edge of the dank hole serving as his privy. This far north, it was still cold enough that in the morning and evening, he could see his breath. _Smell’s not too bad yet. As long as I stay low enough, I’m out of the worst of the wind._

There were twenty solitary confinement cells in Azkaban.

_Dangerous, yes. Universally hated, yes. Batshit crazy?_

Not yet.

And it was the only thing saving him from four walls of stone and constant cold iron chains.

_Thank Merlin for small mercies._

Very small.

At least with one wall of bars, there was the illusion of space. Though the window was as much a curse as a blessing. Freezing air gusted outside, howling through the grate with a _whomp-whomp-whomp_ that ached in his ears.

Sometimes, though, he couldn’t help but wonder if insanity would make any of this easier. _Like now._

“- song of six-pence, a pocket full o’rye! Four-an’-twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie!”

“Wooooooooorrrrrrrmmmmmmm-tail! Wooooooooorrrrrrrmmmmmmm-tail!”

“Aaaaaiiiiiiiiieeeeee- ah, hahahahaaaa!”

A man’s low sobbing underlaid the high-pitched screeches, brutal and wet. “Please, no. Please, no. Please!”

“- know it was you, deceiver! Rat! I _know_ it was you!”  

Someone somewhere was groaning, deep _ughn, ughn, ughn_ s of misery.

“-ain’t that a dainty dish t’set before the king!”

Probably not.  

_I’m not that lucky._

Even in prison he couldn’t get away from Trixie’s ranting. _At least during the holidays I knew eventually someone would have to go home and I’d be free of them._

“- unbelievable.”

Sirius blinked, pulled out of the maelstrom of thought by a mild, outraged, and utterly sane voice. Boots clattered against stone, not in step and barely discernible beneath the clamor of the other inmates.

_Aurors. Two._

It . . . wasn’t rounds or meals.

_What’s going on?_

Curiosity kindled an ember within him, banked low to avoid the Dementors’ notice. Sirius ducked his head, letting greasy hair in dire need of a trim fall over his face, hiding his eyes. _Maybe –_

“You said it.” A snort, louder as they came closer. “If his father wasn’t head of the DMLE, no way he’d get a day pass.”  

Inching along the wall, Sirius eased his body into a quiescent stillness. _Not hiding, not making you search me out; but no threatening moves, nothing to see here._ He caught a glimpse of them through the bars before they drew level with his cell.

Black robes, dragon-hide boots, leather gloves. One loomed a few gangly centimeters over the other, and asked lowly, “Were you at the trial?”

The shorter nodded as they went by. Neither gave any sign of noticing the man tucked into the shadows lining the stone wall. “Yeah. It takes a cold bastard to condemn your son while he’s screaming for you.”

Their voices trailed back behind them as they turned down the corridor, heading toward the stairs and beyond his narrow line of sight. “Speaking of. Wind’s picking up. Think it’ll storm?”

“Wireless said there was a big one coming down out of the north. Gonna be a bad night.”

In Azkaban, there was no other kind.

_“Dementors won’t fly any higher than fourth level on a clear day, not generally. Not unless a gale blows in from the north. Then they go berserk, and it’s like being in a whirlwind.” Anne shuddered, and snagged a chocolate digestive from the dwindling pack._

_“_ Gwynt Traed y Meirw _. The breath of the Gray King,” Sirius murmured. “The wind that blows round the feet of the dead.”_

_The glare Moody shot him was reproving. “Never took you for superstitious,” he rumbled._

_Sirius started._ Superstitious. Right. _He bit back a laugh, and raised his voice just loud enough to be heard. “I’m not.”_  

“Step lively, now.”

Time had slipped away from him again, while he was frozen in old memories.

“Move it. We’re not hangin’ about all day.”

Sirius scooted a little further along the wall, pulling up beneath his tiny window and angling for a better view into the opposite end of the corridor.

Three abreast, the Aurors flanked a dingy, filth-encrusted figure. Their wands gleamed in the bright torchlight, clean robes and filled-out bodies contrasting with the scrawny kid slouching along between them.

 _. . . Hells._  

Pale skin the color of sour milk, topped by overlong hair that had once been straw-blond and was now caked with dirt and oil. His face was drawn like an old man’s, greyed with the weight in his years, few as they were. Sirius caught a flash of brown eyes glinting from beneath stringy bangs, a rabid light shining through before Crouch tucked it away.

Instincts honed to danger, Sirius didn’t take his eyes off the prisoner until all three men pulled out of his line of sight. He swallowed hard on a dry throat, trying to call up moisture that wouldn’t come.

_Azkaban did that._

Sirius hadn’t seen Barty Crouch, Jr. since the day he’d brought Trixie and Rudolphus to Azkaban. Crouch had been captured along with his cousin, her husband, and Rastaban Lestrange; all four under full guard in the temporary cells warded deeply within the DMLE’s Hit Wizard division.

Chained with cold iron in a cell that shared a wall with Bellatrix’s, Crouch had been young and vicious and completely sociopathic, though he hid it beneath a façade of youthful confusion and artistic desperation that rang a sympathetic note with the public. _He made my skin crawl._

Now . . .

_He’s insane._

_And it only took a year._

Sirius had marks on the walls; a small chip of stone he’d worked free in the first week of consciousness. They added up to a little over seven months, but he’d – lost days. More than once. _It doesn’t matter. That’s never me._

Whatever control Barty Crouch, Jr. had ever had over the twisted wrongness inside him had vanished; he’d released it, of his own will. One year in Azkaban had stripped away the veneer of normalcy beyond recall, reducing the kid to his component parts, paring away the lies until only truth and bone were left.

Sirius’ truth had never been cushioned by lies.

_I didn’t betray James and Lily._

The viciousness lighting up Crouch’s face flashed before him again; Sirius closed pale eyes against the vision, shuddering in his dirty robes. Apprehension curled around the edges of his mind. Emptiness gaped wide inside him, and he stuffed cold-stiff fingers in his armpits, huddled close against icy stone.

_I want my wand._

It was gone; snapped and burned or locked away in the Department of Mysteries, as if a few inches of ebony and phoenix feather could tell them anything about why a man would betray his brothers. They would never know. _It can’t reveal a secret it never held._

Anger was the only warmth he could conjure, these days. _I hope they waste their lives searching._

As he had wasted the winter away, barely managing to save all his fingers and toes despite what had to be temperature-regulation charms. _Else no one would survive at all._

Lesser offenses, situated on the higher levels seldom frequented by dementors, were allowed small tokens from home. Sirius had seen Aurors bringing knitted sweaters and thick woolen blankets, and even escorting the occasional loved one through corridors filled with the din of agony and insanity.

They always sped past his cell. None of the first- and second-tiered prisoners ever received visitors.

_Mother would never come. But . . . I thought maybe . . ._

There hadn’t been a trial. All trials were supposed to be public; anyone with a grudge should have been able to watch. _Did no one notice something was wrong? Something was different? Not even Dumbledore?_

Even if they were so enraged they didn’t care – _Remus, I’m so sorry, Remus_ – surely, surely -

He’d lived in exhausted tension for the first month or so, waiting for a familiar face and a memory charm.

_I suppose they’re not worried about who I’ll tell._

They should be. Nights in Azkaban were filled with the unconscious mutterings of Death Eaters. Deadly secrets crept away from their keepers in the night-darkened halls.

_If they haven’t come by now . . ._

Then he was truly forsaken.   


	6. Autumn, 1985

For the first time in a long time, Sirius woke gently. There was a low murmur of voices somewhere nearby, and he blinked into warm golden light. _Sunlight_ ; eyes far more used to the unrelenting darkness of his cell stung and welled with tears.

He shifted, and the hardness beneath him was smooth and sterile, not the familiar rough filth of Azkaban’s stone floors. Sirius tried to lift a hand, but there was a band of cold iron around his wrist.

The last traces of lethargy vanished in a surge of adrenaline. _What – where –_

“You’re awake.” A face loomed over him, displeasure written clear across the Auror’s tight features.

Sirius flinched back into the metal table, abruptly recognizing the cramped room around him for all he’d only ever been there once before. _Southeast turret, med-centre._

“Do you know who you are?” the Auror’s face made it clear he didn’t care.

He nodded anyway.

The Auror grunted, turning away.

Sirius tried to swallow, and winced at the harsh dryness in his mouth. “What -” he croaked, and coughed. The Auror glanced at him, but made no other move.

“What happened?” the other man supplied after Sirius wasted a moment trying to bring moisture to his mouth.

Lips pressed together, Sirius nodded.

The Auror shrugged. “Beats me. Alarms went off for your cell last night, seems you’d stopped breathing. By the time we got up there, your heart had started again, but you’re here to be checked out.”

His surprise must have shown on his face, because the Auror grinned nastily. “Don’t think you’re getting out of Azkaban _that_ easy. Death’s too good for you, traitor.” In the blink of an eye, there was a wand in his face. The hand holding it was steady, and the eyes behind it were merciless. “Make so much as a move, and you’ll regret it,” the Auror hissed.

Sirius blinked. Chained down, recently _dead_ , and they still needed to arm themselves against him? There was a moment where hysterical laughter nearly got the best of him _. What exactly does he think I’m going to do? Cross my eyes, stick out my tongue, and summon Voldemort? Moony, Prongs, wish you could see this._

The possibility of laughter slid away as if it had never existed.

“C’mon, luv,” the Auror said. “I got him.”

Which was when Sirius realized there was someone else in the room.

The witch that scuttled forward was round and short, with a face that might have been pretty if she hadn’t been pale and pinched with fear. Not an Auror, though, and her voice as she cast scanning charms over him was low and honey-warm. Sirius couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen someone – someone _real_ – who wasn’t an Auror. _Or a Dementor._

“Don’t stare,” snapped the Auror. The wand in his face flicked, and Sirius shifted his gaze to the man holding it, who looked ready to hurl a curse. “Shut your eyes.”

Or else.

Left with no choice, Sirius did.

Magic tingled over his skin, swooping into his body and emerging with information. He could feel the tight pull of his hair, matted and tangled and longer than it had ever been. In the warmth of the room he could detect a stink that was getting stronger, reeking of fear-sweat and unwashed skin. _Me_ , he realized. _That’s me._ The steel of the examination table seemed to press harshly against his bones. But he was _warm_ , for the first time in what had to be years. And it was truly quiet – not the eerie calm that fell over Azkaban when the sun rose high, filled with the echoes of full-throated screams. 

_What happened?_

Sirius remembered.

It hadn’t been the Dementors; they hadn’t yet lost their fascination for the new arrival two levels up, and had been congregating there for the past few days. It had been late. Something had struck him, hard, in the chest, and he’d been shoved awake by sudden panic. It had burrowed deep into his flesh, racing towards his heart and then –

Then, he was here.

“By the way, Black,” the Auror said casually. He waited until Sirius risked opening his eyes, and then locked gazes. “Your mum died last night.”

The pieces slotted into place. _Inheritance magics._

The Auror was staring at him with badly-hidden eagerness, searching for a reaction; the medi-witch had already retreated out of his line of vision.

“What year is it?” Sirius rasped.

_That_ got him an expression other than pure hostility. “I tell you your mum’s dead, and you want to know what _year_ it is?” The Auror rolled his eyes, and muttered something that sounded like _crazy fucker._ “It’s 1985. For the next few months, anyway.”

_Four years._ He had been in Azkaban for four years. Sirius swallowed, trying to absorb it. _Harry’s five, now._

It still felt like he’d just seen Lily and James yesterday.

_I’m so sorry, Moony._

The Auror huffed, and walked out of his immediate sight. Almost instantly the witch caught his attention and the murmur of voices filled the small room, too low for him to make out.

“- malnutrition,” he heard the medi-witch say clearly.

“What do you want us to do?” the Auror said, voice rising in irritation. “Force-feed them? There are _Dementors_ here. So the prisoners get depressed, don’t eat all their food. So what? It doesn’t kill them any faster than anything else.”

“It’s not right,” the medi-witch said staunchly, and Sirius rolled his head their way in surprise. She had her fists planted on her hips, face drawn into frown lines, glaring straight and stubborn at the Auror from underneath the mess of curls atop her head.

The Auror didn’t seem to care. “Listen up, sweetheart. This isn’t St. Mungo’s. This is a prison. The people here are not innocent – the man on that table killed at least fifteen people, probably more.” A finger jabbed in Sirius’ direction. “We’re not here to make them comfortable. We’re here to make sure they never hurt anyone again.”

“They’re _people,_ ” she sputtered. “You wouldn’t treat a dog the way you treat these prisoners!”

“Tell you what,” the Auror smiled, the expression pure condescension. “Stay here for a night. Listen to their screams when the Dementors come out at moonrise. Listen to what they say. These long-term prisoners? They’re not people. They’re monsters. They’re not getting anything they don’t deserve a thousand times over.”

“That doesn’t mean -”

Sirius stopped listening, turning his face away and seeking out the sun’s rays while he could. Soon enough, they would throw him back into his cell. _Mother._ Blood was thin comfort in Azkaban, especially when his family had cast him out years ago. But it had still meant something, until last night. He was utterly alone now.

Sirius kept his eyes wide, clinging to the faint sunlight for as long as he could.

_Last survivor of the House of Black._


	7. 1988

__

Warm.

Curled  _just right_ , the dog was covered in sunshine from black nose to tail-tip. A stretch, arching spine and flexing toes, and he resettled against familiar stone.

Nose buried in bushy tail-fur, he huffed out a sigh. Pale eyes drooped, half-closed.

For once, the tray slipped beneath the slot in the bars was licked clean, waiting for collection on afternoon rounds. Though it was little but skin and bones from years of abuse, the dog's belly was rounded, full with food.

Even so, it had no energy, no squeaky toys, no bone chews; the skinny creature had little else to do than follow the sun across the floor all day, a black shadow pooling in the weak rays filtering through thick bars.

And missing  _pack._

The dog whined lowly, the sound lost against the unending screams smothering the corridors.

_Deer-stag_  was gone.  _Small-rat-pack-traitor._

A growl rumbled the dog's chest before trailing off into a whine. Wanted  _wolf-scent_ , but the cage smelled only like itself, layered thickly over stone by years of occupation.

_Pack-lost._

Misery whimpered out in a plaintive cry; tangled, tugging fur, cold-aching paws, eyes watering in light-pain, gut twisting from the unfamiliar weight of too much food. Overshadowing it all, loneliness hollowed out a heart that beat slowly against too-visible ribs.

Huddled in the weak light, the dog pressed itself into a tighter curl.

Coming?

The human's ears couldn't hear it, but the dog recognized the shifting rustle of rotten robes. No scent, but it tracked the growing stink of fear as noise from the other cages exploded to the beat of a frantic heart.

Coming!

Its whine pitched higher, persistent, begging.  _Pack? Pack?! Pack!_

_Pack-lost._

Here.

Cold drifted through the layers of fur to bite thin skin marked with scars. Shudders wracked the narrow frame, pressing a whine from between prominent ribs.  _Run!_

The dog fled into the shadowed corners of their shared mind, leaving behind a canine body curling down into human form. Something fluttered across the window outside, and when the sun returned to the cell it found instead a man, fetal-tight, on rapidly cooling granite.

He scrabbled away, brittle nails chipping on unyielding stone, pulling himself a scanty yard from the sunlit square of floor to the far wall of the cell. A yard; the difference between consciousness and nightmares. A yard was  _nothing_.

Just outside the bars lurked a sweeping fall of gray, a draping cowl hiding the mouth he knew – he  _knew_  – lay gaping underneath. Pressed tightly against the corner between wall and floor, gasping like a dying man, Sirius gave the thing an even stare.

_Come on, then._

One frozen moment, where it raised a rotted hand, tracing the whorls of hoarfrost across cold iron bars. Despondency crashed against his mind, dragging at each trailing thought with the weight of unceasing sorrow.

Sirius trembled, and held fast.

_I didn't do it._

Uninterested, the dementor drifted away, stirring up screams of horror as it went.

He swallowed, and pushed himself to a sit. Head tilted back against hard stone, a heavy exhale pushed out from deep within his bones. The world fuzzed before unfocused eyes as Sirius's thoughts turned inward, tuned to the song of blood rushing in his veins.

_Calm. Stay calm._

Any joy he might have felt in the sunlight left him on the next exhale, lest it draw the Dementors back again. He balanced on the precarious edge of contentment, sidling carefully away from the seductive draw of pure apathy.

_That way lies madness. Just . . . calm._

Even a year ago he couldn't do this; anger would surge and throw him back under the waves of despair lapping against the bars of his cell. But fury, like all hot emotions, was a beacon to Dementors.

The only way out was through tranquility; a pause in the unending drops into depression and highs of euphoria created by the Dementors' comings and goings. With practice, he could make that moment stretch for nearly an hour, reclaiming control over his mind bit by precarious bit.

And he got a  _lot_  of practice.

He didn't dare hope that he would ever be unaffected by the Dementors. Not when the sun banished them to the far reaches of the island, to nooks and crannies so heavily shaded light would never penetrate, and yet he could still feel them. But shoring up his mind would stave off insanity awhile longer, saving him from the fate echoing off dank stone walls.

For the longest time, he hadn't wanted to bother. A life sentence in Azkaban was a doom of hell on Earth, for all a wizard's long years. But in the moment of peace he'd scrounged from between the cracks of a Dementor's skeletal grip, he could  _think_  – in a way that was denied to those dragged under by insanity and despair.

So Sirius ignored the hope of sunlight, and the fright inherent in shadow, and breathed.

There was one thought that he could hold onto that the Dementors, for all their horror, could not rip away. Sirius chained himself to the knowledge, even as a rising chill in the air signaled the return of nightmares.

_I didn't do it._


	8. 1990

_Clang!_

Sirius startled, shifting skins in the space of a heartbeat.

"… dratted cold, don't you…"

"… time of year, sir."

One level up, someone let out a blood-curdling shriek.

Sirius marveled at the silence that followed.

All too soon, a voice  _harrumph_ ed, and broke it. Even so, the words were garbled and half-lost with distance. "- say, utterly fil. . . that dreadful stink-"

"-pologies, Minister . . . typical of-"

_Minister?_

The air was surprisingly mild against his skin. Blinking, Sirius stood on shaky legs, one palm pressed to his narrow windowsill. Silver eyes risked a glance between thick bars, and found an unbroken swathe of bare dirt.  _What happened to the Dementors?_

Not gone – if he  _reached_ , he could . . . almost sense them, somehow hovering at the edges of his perception.  _Where –_

The two voices, much closer now, shattered the brief peace he'd found.

"- Rabastan, Rudolphus, and Bellatrix Lestrange."

"And they're never released, are they?" Not a quaver of fear, there, just blithe arrogance.

"Certainly not. See for yourself, Minister."

 _Showing Trixie off like an animal in a zoo? I'll bet she just_ loves _that._  Fools, the lot of them.  _There's no such thing as a "tamed" Death Eater. Just those that don't currently have enough power to be a threat._

And if anyone could force their way past cold iron to cast a curse through the power of sheer fury alone, it would be Trixie.

For all their foolishness, however, Sirius didn't hear the  _clink-clack_  of stone folding in on itself to open the solitary confinement cell.  _Maybe they're not complete idiots. Just partial ones._

"Well, then. Most satisfactory. Good."

 _It's not like Trixie to let something like that go by without comment, insane or not._  He stepped away from the window, keeping close to the wall.  _Wonder if they stunned her._

 _Or maybe . . ._ Sirius eyed his untouched tray, still lying on the floor just inside the horizontal slot at the base of two bars. An uncommon quiet pressed down on the corridor, and no sound fell down on him from the floors above.

More likely, they'd all gotten a little something  _extra_  with the morning meal. Though trusting his murderous cousin to actually consume enough of it to have an effect was optimistic.  _Stupefaction curse. Probably._

It wasn't paranoia when they threw you in prison without a trial, surrounded you with Dementors and hex-happy Aurors, and subjected you to random, lengthy interrogations that bordered on –

"Stay back from the bars, Minister," the second voice –  _Auror, has to be; familiar, too_  – warned. "We're leaving solitary but are still in the maximum security level of the prison."

Interspersed with the heavy  _clump_  of dragonscale boots was the  _tap-scff-tap_  of finely-made dress shoes.

"Who's this, then?" A small man halted directly in front of the bars, planted firmly in the middle of the corridor like a horklump, and about as imposing.  _Suit,_  Sirius decided, taking in wide pinstripes that did nothing to disguise a thickening waistline, wingtip shoes, and a sour expression shaded by a –  _a bowler hat._

_Maybe Azkaban has sent me mad, and I just haven't realized it yet._

_This_  was the new Minister of Magic?

Whatever else the man was, he was a far cry from Scrimgeour's imposing austerity, with none of the fierce confidence that won wars. The Minister's chest was puffed out, but his face was pasty and edged with sweat.

_The Dementors aren't here; Trixie's so far from consciousness it's another country, and likely the worst of the lot with her; he's on the proper side of the bars – what's here to be afraid of?_

How in Merlin's name had he gotten elected?

_Politics, then. The people think the war is over._

Maybe it was, for anyone not forced to live through memories of battles and death day after day.

At the Minister's side loomed predictable black robes, adorned with a silver patch, and supported by dragonscale boots. Sirius didn't bother to learn their names; he could barely remember their faces.  _It isn't as if I even see them all that often._  But something in the shape of the broken nose beneath his receding hairline tugged Sirius's memory.

 _Oh. You._  The Auror whose face he'd seen above him in the infirmary.  _Not that I got a good look, with my eyes shut._

Five years later, the man barely glanced at him. "Sirius Black."

 _Conjure by it at your peril._  Arms folded, Sirius leant one shoulder against a wall that was as familiar to him as his own skin.

"He's not in solitary confinement?" The Minister didn't meet Sirius's eyes; the smaller man stared around his cell instead, as if avoiding eye contact was some sort of shield.

A grimace worked its way across the Auror's face at the Minister's clear disbelief. "No. We're limited on space. Have to reserve it for the dangerous prisoners-"

"The man killed thirteen people with one curse! How is that not dangerous?" the tiny suit objected.

A muscle ticked in the Auror's jaw. Sirius didn't bother to hide his smirk.

"We're at capacity, Minister; who would you suggest we move? The Lestranges? Nilsen? Maybe Mulciber or Shipman? Rookwood? Dolohov? The solitary cells are reserved for prisoners who are actively violent. And-" Sirius watched him talk right over the Minister's opening mouth with amusement, "- to be frank, each of the prisoners in solitary have killed more people than Black."

Somehow, the Minister's cheeks went a shade paler. "Ah. Yes. Of course."

"Besides, none of the long-term prisoners have more than a spark of magic to them, between the Dementors and cold iron," black-clad shoulders dipped in a shrug. "As long as you don't get close enough that they can grab you or your wand, it's perfectly safe."

The prison's only unregistered animagus stifled a snort.  _Sure it is._

"Oh. Of course." The man took a large step back, placing himself within half a meter of the bars of the cell opposite. Well within grabbing distance.

 _Good thing it's empty._  Sirius rolled his eyes.

"What are those . . . odd scribbles?" The Minster was squinting past him now, waving a hand at the stones propping Sirius up.

Faintly scratched into the walls was a sequence of numbers and symbols that twisted in on itself and ran back and forth across most of the wall in a complex equation. Between Dementor blackouts and scrounging up fresh slivers of stone with which to write, the formula had taken him the better part of a year to devise.  _At least, I think it did._

_And I still haven't solved it. Not yet._

The Auror didn't even bother looking, impatience in the thin line of his mouth. "Most of the long-term inmates are mad, or on their way to becoming so, Minister Fudge. Black's no different."

Sirius blinked, and bit down a laugh.  _Mad?_  Advanced numeralistics did have aspects of symbology within it, but those elements were almost entirely integer-related. The forensic magics team used similar equations all the time. Hell, anyone even slightly familiar with arithmancy would recognize some of the variables, as arithmancy drew from core numeralistics.  _Maybe it was using base seven that threw them off._

"Shall we move on, Minister?" the Auror asked pointedly. "I know you have a schedule to keep, and there's still six levels above this one for your review."

The Minister cleared his throat importantly. "Certainly, Mr. Bailey. Don't want to spend more time here than absolutely necessary."

"No one does," Bailey said dryly.

Sirius didn't move as they walked out of sight.  _I'd rather not spend the rest of the day stupefied._

He still had an equation to solve, after all.

_Not that there's any rush._

It wasn't as if he had anywhere else to be. And the exact amount of power Voldemort had expended in the Killing Curse that shredded the wards at Godric's Hollow wasn't of interest to anyone else, anyway.

Voices trailed back to him as the pair progressed.

"Oof!"

"Mind the grate, Minister." Bailey, bland as the food Sirius had ignored this morning.

"Blasted nuisance!" Indignation echoed back along the hall.

Sirius pushed off the wall and stepped back toward the window, cool stone comforting against calloused feet. He could still make out words although their volume had faded with distance.

"Essential, I'm afraid. There's a single sewer line for the entirety of Azkaban-"

"And I suppose that the manhole  _must_  be located in the middle of the bloody hallway, then? Hmmph!"

The Auror made placating noises that faded as they rounded the corner of the corridor, headed for the stairs leading to the prison's upper levels.

All too soon, the strange silence wrapped around him.

Instead of dropping back to the floor, Sirius braced himself against the windowsill, head tilted towards the tiny slice of blue sky he could barely make out from between the bars.  _Maybe half an hour. Maybe more, if the Dementors are kept away . . ._

A surprising tingle swept through him, pulling at the corners of his mouth and lifting his heart. It wasn't a completely alien feeling, but it was enough to shake a giddy shiver out of him.  _Is this what it feels like to be happy? I don't remember._

Silver eyes fixed on the sky, Sirius smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: "Conjure by it at your peril" is something I pulled from The Dresden Files.
> 
> The mentions of Shipman and Nilsen refer specifically to English serial killers Harold Shipman and Dennis Nilsen. The two are unaffiliated. Shipman was a doctor responsible for the murders of up to 250 patients, who was convicted and later committed suicide in his prison cell in 2004. Nilsen is the "British Jeffrey Dahmer," who killed at least 15 young men and then did disgusting things; he's currently in maximum security lockup. Wiki can tell you more, because I won't – and read those pages at your own risk (I almost threw up and then had to stop).


End file.
